


Surely It Should Never, Ever End

by TRASHCAKE



Category: EXO (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Small Town, Excessive Tea Consumption, M/M, Slow Burn, Unrequited SuChen, Unresolved Side Pairings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-05
Updated: 2017-05-05
Packaged: 2018-10-28 10:38:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,947
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10829568
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TRASHCAKE/pseuds/TRASHCAKE
Summary: It takes Joonmyeon a long time to realise that he’s miserable, that there’s more to life than he assumes. It takes Jongin to fix it; all-encompassing, unconditional, and always faintly rose scented.





	Surely It Should Never, Ever End

**Author's Note:**

> [Prompt #51]
> 
> In my mind, this takes place in Rushworth, a rural town in Victoria, Australia. Other cities I've referenced are: Bendigo, a slightly more populated town and Melbourne, Victoria's capital city. 
> 
>  
> 
> [Mood Music.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yV8dfyrD64c)

“There’s magic here,” says Junmyeon’s grandmother. She holds onto his hand, a makeshift walking cane as they wander through her garden. Flowers bloom year round, the fruit in the orchard exceptionally sweet. Junmyeon is still young enough to believe in the mystical and the wonderful, and the mind of a child always jumps to conclusions. 

“You mean fairies?” He asks. Junmyeon doesn’t know about _magic_ , only knows of the stories his mother reads him before bedtime. Sometimes there are dragons, but Junmyeon doesn’t believe in those. Fairies, on the other hand, are completely plausible. 

“Yes,” she laughs. Her whole body shakes as she giggles. Junmyeon tries his best to keep her upright, using all of his limited strength to stop her from falling. “Yes, I mean fairies.” 

“That’s so nice of them,” Junmyeon comments offhandedly, observing the garden beds with a curious eye, hoping to catch sight of a pair of wings or a small face amongst the flowers. He finds nothing, and is disappointed until he reasons that they’re probably just shy, hiding. 

With cautious steps, his grandmother guides him. She tells him about all the plants in the garden, and Junmyeon listens with rapt attention, nibbling away at strawberries he picks straight from the bush. 

Junmyeon’s grandmother uses a lot of long words, says things he doesn’t understand, not yet. She tells him about the _Snapdragons_ , and Junmyeon’s fingers flinch away from the bright yellow flowers, terrified that he may be bitten. 

She laughs so much in Junmyeon’s presence, amused by his naivety and curiosity. 

“There’s magic here,” she says once more, smiling fondly at her Snapdragons.

Junmyeon doesn’t hear her. He’s still too busy searching for fairies. 

\-------

Rust clings to the metal frame of the gate, hinges squeaking loudly in protest as it's pushed open. Grass brushes against Junmyeon’s shins as he walks through the front yard, grasshoppers scattering into the air, startled by the sudden movement. 

It’s been so many years since a person has stepped foot through the rusted gates and it shows. The house, dilapidated and worn. The yard, dying and neglected, filled with dying grass and abandoned garden beds. The sole living plant, a wilted rose bush, clings to life amongst barren surroundings. He’s surprised it’s still alive. 

“It’s not quite what I remember,” Junmyeon says, mostly to himself, though perhaps the grasshoppers have overheard him, too. 

He has memories of this house--- foggy and distorted by time. An old woman with more wrinkles than a face should hold, a well-kept garden and never-ending pots of tea. Junmyeon once played amongst the flowers and fruits; in his childlike wonder, his grandmother’s garden once seemed like a brand new world filled with magic. 

Now all that remains is dirt and weeds, a house overtaken by the honeysuckle blossoms that Junmyeon once sucked the nectar from. 

He still can’t believe she’s gone. He still can’t believe that the grandmother he rarely saw decided that his portion of the inheritance included her house--- her pride and joy, along with her life savings. Junmyeon hasn’t seen her since he was a teenager; his mother shipping her off to a nursing home, alone and forgotten as dementia deteriorated her mind and body. 

Junmyeon falls under the category of lost adults, wandering aimlessly between dead-end jobs and existential dread. The news of his grandmother’s death--- mentioned so casually in a text message from his distant mother--- along with the revelation of her will, have proved to be somewhat of a catalyst. He quits his job, leaves the city and moves to the countryside, all on a whim, all in search of a life with meaning. 

There’s a lot to do: renovations, yard work. It’s likely that Junmyeon won’t even live in his new home, not until the walls are cleared of asbestos, taking the smell of damp, rotting wood with it. He doesn’t know what he’ll do until then. He’s lived paycheck to paycheck for his entire adult life, and most of his inheritance money will go towards fixing his new home. 

_His_ home. 

Owning a house once seemed like a far-fetched dream, unachievable for people like Junmyeon, who weren’t born into money and whose talents lie in fields without careers. It’s not the penthouse apartment he’s always dreamed of, but it’s something to call his own. 

He turns the key over in his palm; old-fashioned, made to fit a lock older than Junmyeon himself. Like all things metal, it has rusted over time. It barely fits into the lock, crusted over and thicker than it should be. Small, orange flecks dislodge as Junmyeon twists the key, the internal mechanisms stuck after years of disuse and neglect. 

With a sigh, Junmyeon adds it to his mental list of things in need of replacement and repair. 

\-------

There are a lot of stereotypes about small towns, and it doesn’t take Junmyeon long to discover that they’re all true. He finds himself crowded by well-intentioned gossips, a never ending supply of beer pressed into his hand, cold glasses slick with condensation.

He sits in the local hotel; a place for weary travellers to rest for the night, somewhere where locals amass in search of alcohol and company. Junmyeon’s new home away from home, while local builders, obsessed with nostalgia and small-town charm, work tirelessly on the restoration of his grandmother’s old house. 

It seems to be the small town way: long days of labour, drink until the pub closes, crawl home and sleep. Rinse and repeat. 

Young people seem few and far between, and Junmyeon has already befriended the only two people around his age; two young firefighters named Jongdae and Chanyeol, young men who spend more time cutting down trees than saving lives. Their biceps are firm from constant use, their bellies soft from their penchant for drinking. 

The two slip into adjacent bar stools like old friends and not strangers, starting a conversation without nervous hesitation. They talk about everything and nothing all at once, chewing the fat as they pick at thick cut fries between sips of cheap, local beer. Junmyeon offers little information in return, just bits and pieces to sate their curiosity. Apparently, there’s two more to their little friend group: Kyungsoo, who lives two doors down from Junmyeon’s new house. He works nights, a doctor at the hospital one town over, and they’re all so, so proud of him. 

They speak little of Baekhyun, the final addition to the local youths. He’s abandoned the small town life to chase his dreams in the big city, and Junmyeon figures his choices haven’t exactly been well received. 

He comes back to visit on occasion, though not often enough. The hurt is obvious on both Jongdae’s and Chanyeol’s faces as they relay the information.

“Your girl must be mad,” Jongdae says, switching topic, his words slurred and cheeks flushed. His lips curl into a permanent smile, more pronounced as he grins in Junmyeon’s direction. “You’ve left her all alone.” 

“What makes you think I’ve got a girl?” Beer isn’t Junmyeon’s thing, he’s more fond of vodka, hard liquors. But free alcohol is free alcohol, and he takes a sip to hide the uncontrollable nervousness so clearly displayed on his face. 

“You’re a good-looking guy,” Jongdae shrugs. His mouth still hides the ghost of a smile, and Junmyeon swallows the beginnings of desire with a mouthful of beer. 

“No girl,” he replies. He offers a shrug to show his nonchalance, another sip to hide his face. 

“That’s a shame,” Chanyeol offers his input. 

Junmyeon doesn’t reply, and the conversation moves on, forgetting him in favour of more mundane topics.

\-------

The builders leave the honeysuckle vines to grow, as per Junmyeon’s request. They’ve been trimmed down, but still remain, allowing the house to retain the fairytale aesthetic. It was one of Junmyeon’s few instructions, along with a modernised kitchen (he’s never been fond of gas stoves) and a showerhead that offers pleasant water pressure.

Other than that, he’s let them run amok with their love for small town charm, restoring the small cottage to some of its former glory. 

Yard left largely untouched, not by Junmyeon’s request but out of respect for his late grandmother. The men who fixed the house knew her more personally than Junmyeon himself, and none of them have the kind of green thumb required to re-plant and landscape an entire acre of property. 

The excessively long grass has been cut, at least, Junmyeon notices, as he walks through the now rust-free gate of his home, a brand new key in hand. Something smaller, more modern, fit for a lock less likely to give way under the swift kick of any would-be intruder. 

(Not that theft is much of an issue in these parts, with their righteous sense of morality and community) 

Free from mildew, the scent of fresh paint still lingering within the walls, the house is everything Junmyeon wanted and more. His cheap, yet modern furniture stands out against the quaint backdrop of the house, mismatched and out of place, a visual representation of Junmyeon and his new position within a community so unused to change. 

It’s _home_ , at least for now. Junmyeon doesn’t plan on staying forever, just until he sorts himself out, until the fresh country air offers him a revelation on his place in the world. 

He already misses the internet, phone coverage. Jongdae and Chanyeol gave suggestions on providers for both, companies willing to offer their services so far out in the countryside. All he has to do is wait; technicians take weeks to summon to these parts, the closest town with a phone kiosk a few hours drive away.

With nothing else to do, Junmyeon peruses his grandmother’s belongings-- mostly gardening books and supplies, all of them older than Junmyeon. 

A resented sigh, a pot of tea and limited TV channels playing in the background to create noise, Junmyeon settles in to read. 

He’s got nothing better to do. 

\------

The green thumb is hereditary. Whether or not it skipped a generation, Junmyeon neither knows nor cares. His mother has never been interested in gardening, and Junmyeon has never been interested in conversation with her. Under his careful watch, he picks up where his grandmother left off, sculpting floral art from dirt and seeds.

Hose set to a gentle mist, Junmyeon waves the nozzle lightly over his geraniums. Water collects within the centre of the multi-coloured flowers, small droplets falling from petals onto leaves and then finally, the dirt below. On occasion, his yellow blossoms deposit their dewdrops onto his bare feet, they form tracks down his mud-caked skin and through the seams of his toes. 

There’s a certain scent that comes with watering plants using a hose; something a little like rubber. It clashes with the leaves and the aromas of his flowers, but it’s something so uniquely reminiscent of a garden; water settling on leaves, crisp smell of freshly watered plants and dirt. It has become one of Junmyeon’s favourite things in the world. 

The weather borders on uncomfortably hot, heat that isn’t quite felt under the shelter of trees and with the water that dissipates into the air, cooling it down. There’s a reason why people spend their spare time in the garden, the repetition and atmosphere are so soothing, calming. It’s almost ritualistic, from the first step onto dewy grass to the scrubbing of dirt from beneath fingernails. Junmyeon has never been so happy. 

He has help with his garden, though not from humans. His only companions are the four hens he keeps in a modestly sized hutch. They’re released daily, allowed to run free within the gardens, providing free fertiliser and turning over the soil to prepare beds for planting. The hens are his invaluable companions, providing background noise of excited clucking as Junmyeon waters his geraniums. 

There’s something about the soil at his house that makes anything grow. Junmyeon’s a fantastic gardener, that’s a given. But he’s never lost a plant to disease, each one offering blossoms, fruits or vegetables without issue. There’s always something in bloom within Junmyeon’s garden, the entire area so full of life. It’s breathtaking. 

(His grandmother would be so, _so_ proud)

Roses are the only exception. He’s never managed to grow a single bush, his sole rose plant the result of his grandmother’s careful hands. It grows in the middle of the garden, almost a centrepiece to the landscaping he’s since completed. Of all things, the single rose bush is a testament to Junmyeon’s gardening ability; it now blooms with soft pink blossoms, its leaves lush and vibrantly green. He brought the poor, neglected plant from the brink of death. 

Junmyeon’s rose bush is his greatest treasure. 

\------

Armed with a degree in creative writing and small town boredom, Junmyeon takes his newly connected internet and creates a blog. People tend to like videos and blogs about gardens and DIY, artistic souls living vicariously through those with enough room to make things grow. 

Junmyeon soon discovers that he likes gardening, so much he’s made it his job. It starts as a few videos, mostly for his Facebook friends, documenting the transformation of his yard into something resembling a garden. It ends with a Fan Page, a YouTube channel and guest columns in lifestyle magazines. 

His shtick is simple; tips and tricks for gardening, taken from his grandmother’s vintage books, mixed with his own personal discoveries. 

The charm and draw come from Junmyeon himself, or so says the comment section each time he posts something new. He’s taken to naming his plants, coming up with small stories about their made up personalities, the friendships they may hold if other plants, if only they were human. Teenage girls call him handsome, their parents pick up gardening tips and Junmyeon maintains a paycheck as he tends to his plants. 

_You seem lonely_ , one commenter points out, _your only friend is Rosie._

Rosie. His unoriginally, aptly named rose bush. The star of his blogs and channel, whose ‘human’ personality closely resembles a sweet girl who drinks organic, fruity teas and enjoys classic literature. Her hair, soft and brown, always curls into fashionable waves, the pink of her blossoms dictating her choice in clothing. 

(There is fanart of a humanoid Rosie, and more often than not they end up as the background on his phone and laptop) 

The comments aren’t exactly wrong; Junmyeon’s main form of contact comes from answering comments and fanmail, the occasional drink with Jongdae and Chanyeol. He meets Kyungsoo, too, the local doctor and pride of the community, whose eyes have seen too much. Junmyeon knows he’s smart-- book smart, at least-- but often Kyungsoo seems to hold the kind of perceptiveness that terrifies him, all knowing smiles when Junmyeon’s gaze lingers a little too long on the curve of Jongdae’s lips. 

Their conversations are easy, boring. Always ending in a repetitive loop of _how’s the garden?_ (good), _got a girlfriend, yet?_ (no), and requests to spend a weekend away at the nearest big town, for a change in drinking scenery and “exotic” food like Thai cuisine (always denied). 

The comments, the strangers on the internet-- they’re not wrong. Junmyeon is alone but it’s not like he’s _lonely_. Gardening brings Junmyeon the kind of peace he’s always dreamed of, but never thought to pursue. Some company would be nice, but the sort of companionship he craves isn’t something he’ll ever find, not in these parts, at least. His budding crush on Jongdae and his soft, beautiful smiles threatens to bloom into something unattainable, so Junmyeon cuts it back, keeps the feelings at bay. 

It takes a while, two years and counting, and Junmyeon’s garden flourishes, alongside the unattainable longing of something he’ll never have. 

\------

A night like any other, a morning discovery that changes Junmyeon forever. 

He wakes with the sun, as has become his routine. He drinks his tea, an homage to his grandmother, using one of the many pots she left to him. Junmyeon sips at his tea as he gathers the bowl of vegetable scraps on the kitchen counter, food for his precious hens, a sacrificial offering in hopes they leave the unripe produce well enough alone. 

“Good morning, ladies,” he croons, unlatching their hut. They pace animatedly along the edges, clucking eagerly as they wait for Junmyeon to set them free. Rosie may be the star of Junmyeon’s blog, but his four beautiful ladies aren’t without their admirers. Named after pop stars Junmyeon has never heard of, the result of a popularity contest held on his fanpage, they’re full of life and personality. Junmyeon likes them a lot. 

He sets to work, beginning with the beds closest to the house. Junmyeon needs to trim the honeysuckle vine, again, but that’s something his viewers have always liked to watch: a small man gently chastising a blossoming vine for growing so enthusiastically, before cooing over the plant’s apparent love for him, considering its never ending effort to sneak inside the house. 

Rosie is in need of some new mulch, but that’s another video entirely. Besides, he has to make the hour-long trek into the next town for the proper supplies, the hardware store in the small main strip unsurprisingly lacking in anything that isn’t basic equipment. 

The hens dart underfoot as Junmyeon unlatches his hose, dragging it in Rosie’s direction. Freshly watered plants always result in bugs and grubs wriggling their way to the surface, a smorgasbord for hens already bored with their morning scraps. 

Only Rosie isn’t there, and Junmyeon’s heart stops. His property divides into two sections, separated by a small hill lined with vines of grape and passionfruit. Usually, Junmyeon can see the tips of Rosie’s leaves from his current standpoint, but the only hint of green he sees is from other plants in the area. 

Panicked, he throws his hose the ground, water pooling in the grass as he runs. It’s a cruel prank to play on someone; if millions of people on the internet can pick up on it, then the townspeople surely know how much Rosie means to him; the last memory of his grandmother, the only other person to love the garden as much as Junmyeon--- 

Rosie is gone, and in her place lies a boy. Younger than Junmyeon, by the looks of it, though still an adult, he sleeps nude in the place where Rosie once stood, dirt smeared on his body and hair a soft pink. 

Probably a traveller, Junmyeon assumes, a city boy on a road trip who got too drunk and decided that plant-based homicide was a great idea. 

“Get up,” Junmyeon seethes. If he were a cruel man, he would kick the boy, right in the ribs. Serves him right, what with his blatant disrespect for private property and beautiful rose bushes. But Junmyeon isn’t a cruel man, so instead, he nudges at the boy’s sleeping form with his muddy toes. “Get up, and get out.” 

The boy groans, fingers curling in the dirt below as he stirs. 

“I will call the police,” he threatens. There are two policemen in the town, and one of them must be awake by now. He has both of their phone numbers, just in case there’s no one at the station. The beauty of small towns, really. 

“Whaaa---” the boy sits up, woozy and disoriented. He rubs at his face, smearing the dirt from his fingertips onto his cheeks. In any other situation, Junmyeon would have found him unbearably attractive; soft, pouty lips and high cheekbones, eyes drooping sleepily. But Junmyeon is instead unbearably angry, already mourning the loss of his favourite plant. 

“What did you do to Rosie?” Junmyeon demands, nudging at the boy with his foot once more. He wants answers, closure. Then he wants the boy gone. 

“Why do you keep calling me that?” the boy murmurs, “I’ve been telling you for years, my name is _Jongin_ ,” he sighs, curling back into the dirt. “Why do you never listen?” 

“Look, Jongin,” the boy stills in the dirt as Junmyeon speaks his name. “I don’t know who you are, but I need you to leave.” 

“You can hear me?” Jongin must be drunker than he thought. “You can really hear me?” 

“C’mon,” Junmyeon grabs a hold of Jongin’s arm, pulling upwards, trying to get him to stand. He can stay in Junmyeon’s house while he sobers up, and maybe, if he’s repentant enough, he won’t press charges. 

Jongin yowls, as if Junmyeon has hurt him. “Please don’t pull me up,” he cries, “I love you, please don’t do this to me.” 

He drops Jongin’s arm in shock. 

“I’m not a weed,” he continues, clinging to the dirt. Junmyeon thinks he hears the telltale sniffle of someone crying. “I thought you loved me.” 

“What are you on,” Junmyeon mutters, reaching for Jongin’s chin. He’s seen the effects of drugs before, red eyes and widened pupils, but the only thing in Jongin’s eyes are a few unshed tears and the unexpected expression of heartbreak. 

“I thought you loved me,” Jongin says again. 

“Stand up, Jongin,” he laments, anger fading into the unmistakable urge to care for the poor, disorientated boy lost in his garden. “C’mon now, on your feet.” 

“Feet,” Jongin mutters, gaze shifting to where his toes disappear into mulch. “Hands,” he continues, raising his own into his line of vision, wiggling his fingers and watching in awe. “Right, I have those.” 

“Yes, you do,” Junmyeon takes Jongin by the arm once again, hauling him to his feet, this time without protest. “Now use them.” 

Jongin is unsteady as he walks, but he follows Junmyeon dutifully. Stumbling every so often, limbs still heavy under the effects of alcohol, or whatever is in his system, he keeps up with the brisk pace Junmyeon sets towards his house. 

The sun shines just a little brighter in the sky, and his neighbours will soon wake. Junmyeon can only hope he can get Jongin clothed and on his way before they discover the commotion. 

\------

“You’re sure there’s no one missing?” Junmyeon sighs into the receiver. Many confusing phone calls later, and Junmyeon still isn’t sure where Jongin has come from. The police haven’t seen any abandoned cars, and no one has come forward in search of the boy currently napping on Junmyeon’s couch. Jongdae and Chanyeol haven’t seen anything, and Kyungsoo is certain that no patients resembling Jongin have come through the hospital. 

Now, the owner of the local hotel is telling him that the spare rooms are empty, no one having checked in or out within weeks. 

“Sorry Junmyeon,” he says, the terrible reception distorting his voice, “but I have no idea who your mysterious flower thief is.” 

Disappointed, Junmyeon thanks him regardless, requesting that he keep an eye and ear out. In a town like this, everyone is prone to gossip, and the appearance of such a tall, handsome boy with such unusual hair wouldn’t have gone unnoticed. 

Jongin shifts on the sofa as Junmyeon ends the call. Chanyeol should be on his way with spare clothes, the only person in town tall enough to offer garments that don’t contain the smell of stale sweat and mothballs. Plus, Jongin is young, and while Chanyeol isn’t exactly _fashionable_ his clothes still hold more style than the other potential clothing donors. 

“Who are you?” Junmyeon asks Jongin, who merely replies with a sleepy, muffled groan. He wears what little of Junmyeon’s clothes fit him; oversized nonsense he felt pressured into buying a city boy, hoarded and left forgotten as he arrived in the country.

Jongin shifts in his sleep, dirt crusted limbs smearing stains onto the sofa. A pain to clean up, but no more than the mess maker himself. 

Junmyeon will have to delay his new content until Jongin clears out, already wondering how he’s going to explain Rosie’s mysterious absence. 

\------

Where Chanyeol goes, Jongdae is sure to follow. It’s just one of those things Junmyeon has learnt to expect. Their close, easy friendship causes the occasional bout of envy; but they’ve been together for years, only had each other for so long. Jongdae and Chanyeol have been a duo since before Junmyeon knew them, and they will stick together after he leaves. 

It’s not his place to be jealous. 

“Where’d you find him?” Chanyeol is loud. Chanyeol doesn’t knock. Jongdae nudges him in the ribs to remind him of manners, but the damage is done. Thankfully, Jongin doesn’t stir, evidently a heavy sleeper. 

“In my garden,” Junmyeon says, a little quieter than Chanyeol’s earlier exclamation. He ushers them into the kitchen, flipping the switch on his electric kettle and moving to prepare tea. “He did something to my rose bush and passed out in the empty plot.” 

“Fucking city kids,” Jongdae scoffs. He helps Junmyeon with the tea, finding mugs and pulling the sugar from Junmyeon’s cupboard. The whole scene is filled with domestic implications that Junmyeon shouldn’t dwell on. 

It’s funny that they’ll all jumped to the same conclusion. Perhaps it’s the hair, the lean frame, but there’s something about Jongin that screams _not from around here_. Junmyeon had it too, when he first arrived. But he’s grown out of it, assimilated into rural life and left the city boy part of him in the bright lights where he belongs. 

“Hey,” the incessant banging of cupboards and the clinking of cups must have stirred Jongin from his sleep. Funny how Chanyeol’s entrance caused no reaction, but the promise of sustenance awakens him easily. 

Jongdae stills, as does Chanyeol. Gossipy small town folks they may be, but it doesn’t mean they want to be overheard. Junmyeon laughs softly to himself, amused by both his friends and the sleepy, disoriented look on Jongin’s face. 

“Feeling a little better?” He prompts. Jongin shrugs, taking a seat at the table next to Chanyeol. Wordlessly, Junmyeon fetches another mug. 

“A bit,” Jongin yawns, stretches. Junmyeon’s oversized clothes are still a little small, his shirt riding up with the extension of his arms. “Don’t remember anything, though.” 

“You were pretty fucked,” Jongdae laughs. The kettle clicks, indicating that the water is ready. “Or so Junmyeon told us.” 

“Yeah,” Jongin plays with his fingers, awkwardly. “Thought I was gonna die there for a while. Junmyeon nursed me back to health.” 

“Don’t be so dramatic,” Junmyeon chides. 

“No one’s ever died from a hangover,” Jongdae adds. He’s already found the canister of Junmyeon’s favourite tea, adding the loose leaves to his biggest pot. Domestic. Things he can’t have. Junmyeon clears his throat, moving on. 

“Where are your friends?” He asks. Kids like Jongin have vast friend groups, people to travel with, equally attractive people who are probably searching for him. 

“Out there,” Jongin jerks his thumb in the direction of the backyard. Junmyeon frowns. “I don’t know why I said that.” 

“What can you remember?” Chanyeol pushes. Jongin’s arrival is the first interesting thing to happen since Junmyeon strolled into town, all those years ago. Where Junmyeon was a fresh face, Jongin is a mystery, a curious case to unravel to ease the boredom. 

“I remember waking up,” Jongin sighs, “I remember my name, waking up, and the fact that Junmyeon has been looking after me,” he pauses sheepishly. “I remember loving him a lot, too?” 

Blushing doesn’t come easily to Junmyeon, but he’s easily flustered. He busies his hands preparing the tea, adding sugar to Jongdae’s cup, milk to Chanyeol’s. He leaves room in his own for cold water and presents Jongin’s cup to him as is. If all he can remember is the last few hours, then he’s unlikely to remember his tea preferences. 

“Milk and sugar please.”

Or not. 

Junmyeon adds them obediently, pushing Jongin’s mug towards him--- floral, largely unused. His grandmother’s favourite, or something resembling it, straight from his fog-drenched memories. 

“This has roses in it,” Jongin muses, inhaling the steam from his tea. “Rose, citrus, vanilla. Is that calendula, as well?”

“Good nose,” Chanyeol nudges him lightly. So he’s already accepted, then.It took Junmyeon a few months to be on the receiving end of one of Chanyeol’s elbow jabs. “To me, it just tastes like tea.” 

“I really like roses,” Jongin mumbles into the rim of his mug. He looks so soft and small, despite his height. The way he holds his mug reminds him of some of the fanart drawn of Rosie, hands curled around the cup, the handle completely ignored. 

She’s just a plant, but she’s gone and Junmyeon misses her.

“So do I,” Junmyeon replies. 

\------

Jongin’s memory doesn’t return, not in the way Junmyeon expects it to. He somehow _knows_ things. Simple pieces of knowledge, like how to use Junmyeon’s PS4 to browse Netflix and the places Junmyeon hides the snacks he really shouldn’t eat. 

“I haven’t seen Kyungsoo in a while.” 

And sometimes Jongin’s knowledge is terrifying. He plays with the hem of Chanyeol’s borrowed sweater, busying his hands for something to do. He’s so nonchalant about everything, like he doesn’t realise he’s somewhere he doesn’t belong. 

“You’ve never met Kyungsoo.”

“Sure I have,” a stray thread wrapped around long fingers, twisted until it breaks. “I don’t remember too much, but I know he’s kind.” 

“Don’t fuck with me,” Junmyeon mutters. He throws his phone at Jongin. It misses, landing on the sofa beside him. “Use that, find your friends, and then leave.” 

“Okay,” Jongin replies. If he’s hurt by Junmyeon’s cold tone, his expression doesn’t show it. 

There are things to be done, gardens to water, content to be filmed. None of it seems appealing, but neither does staying in a room with Jongin. The thrill of mystery wears off, the shiny new appeal of a stranger dulls into mild annoyance. 

Drunken, reckless kid. Destructive force and unwelcome guest. Junmyeon doesn’t have the heart to tend to his plants, but maybe some weeding will ease his annoyance. Perhaps he can follow the hens around for a while, laugh as they chase each other in search of the biggest bugs. 

He spots some Cobbler’s Pegs amongst his strawberry patch, dropping to his hands and knees as he rips them from the soil, roots and all. Calming and methodical, it soothes Junmyeon to clear out the garden beds, keep his precious plants safe. 

“Why do you do that?” 

He doesn’t hear the approaching footsteps. Jongin sits beside Junmyeon, barefooted and cross-legged, watching with rapt attention, Junmyeon’s phone in hand. Belatedly, he realises that he never offered Jongin the passcode. 

“Do what?” 

“Pick and choose,” Jongin gestures to the pile of weeds steadily building to Junmyeon’s right. “What makes these plants less worthy of life than all the others?” 

“They’re _weeds_ , Jongin,” Junmyeon doesn’t have the energy to explain the complexities of gardening to someone who doesn’t understand the concept. If Jongin wants a crash course, Junmyeon can direct him to his blog. “You’re supposed to pull them out.” 

“These plants have as much as a right to life as the rest of your garden,” Jongin says seriously. Junmyeon can’t believe he’s being dragged into a conversation on the ethics of weeding. “They’re scared. They just want to grow, they want you to be proud of them,” Jongin swallows heavily. “And then you go and pull them out, or cover them in poison.”

“Jongin--” 

“It burns them, kills them slowly,” he continues, “they suffer, you make them so sad, Junmyeon.” 

“Jongin,” Junmyeon tries again. “Jongin, they’re just weeds.” 

“Why do you treat the beautiful plants with love and care, while the rest are slaughtered?” Jongin sighs, offering a mourning, forlorn glance at the discarded pile of leaves and stems. “Maybe weeds could be beautiful, too, if you just gave them a chance.” 

Junmyeon doesn’t know how to respond, but he doesn’t have to--- Jongin is already gone. 

\------

“If you treat the Earth with love, she will respond in kind,” Junmyeon’s grandmother informs him, placing a small pinch of seeds into his tiny hand. The only love Junmyeon knows of is the kind that is displayed by kisses, so he presses his lips against the curl of his fist. “Yes, my darling, just like that.” 

She smiles, then, so soft and fond. 

“What will she give me for being nice?” He asks, genuinely curious. Sometimes his teachers give him stickers when he does well in class, a small wrapped candy if he’s extra good. His imagination bursts into vivid visions of a tree with candy instead of fruit growing from the seeds he’s just kissed, glittery stickers unfurling in place of flowers. 

“Anything you need,” his grandmother replies. “For me, I need food, and she gives it to me.” 

Gentle fingertips trace the leaves of a nearby tomato plant. 

Junmyeon thinks to himself. “I’d like a new truck, Missus Earth,” he says brightly, whispering into the soil in hopes she can hear him. He’s still young, unable tell the difference between needs and wants. 

“Not like that,” she laughs to herself. 

Junmyeon thinks again. _Really_ thinks. He would like his mother to stop looking so angry all the time, wants to find out who the mysterious man who calls on his birthday is. But most of all, the thing he wants most is---

“A friend,” Junmyeon mumbles to himself. Then, a little louder, “Do you think Missus Earth would give me a friend?”

“Maybe,” she replies mysteriously, “but that all depends on how much you need one.” 

\------

Kyungsoo is the first to arrive, looking less haggard than Junmyeon is used to. A day off, apparently, though still on call--- not that it means much to a rural doctor, because unexpected emergencies are few and far between. 

“You never invite people over,” he says, toeing his shoes off at the front door. Junmyeon isn’t exactly neat, but Kyungsoo is always polite enough to avoid contributing to his mess. “So I took the night off.” 

“What?” Junmyeon is honestly puzzled. His evening plans included an omelette, some bad TV and ignoring Jongin. Plans, now interrupted by Kyungsoo’s sudden appearance. 

“The others are off buying alcohol,” he continues, pushing through the threshold. Kyungsoo has been to his house exactly twice: once, to help Junmyeon move planks of wood into the backyard, structural frames for new garden beds. The second time was to observe the final result. “So they’ll be a little late, I hope that’s okay?” 

“I---” Junmyeon has half a mind to tell him to leave, send a message to the others saying the same. But that would be rude, and Jongdae would probably just take him by the arm anyway, dragging him out to the hotel for a round or two there, instead. “Yeah, that’s fine.” 

“Any luck on your stray?” Kyungsoo enquires. 

“None,” Junmyeon shakes his head. “He doesn’t remember a thing, and no one’s been reported missing.” 

“Weird,” Kyungsoo sniffs. 

“Tell me about it,” Junmyeon mumbles his reply, thinking back on his afternoon conversation with Jongin. He walked back into the garden later on, only to find the weeds re-planted in the empty plot by the edge of his yard. He was saving that space for some Marigolds once the season hits, but he supposes he can humour Jongin’s strange obsession with weeds for the time being. 

“You must be Jongin,” Kyungsoo greets as he walks into the kitchen. Jongin already has five cups set out, tea brewing in a pot in the centre of the table. “I’ve heard so much about you.” 

“Nice to see you again,” Jongin nods, smiling politely. 

Kyungsoo raises an eyebrow, looking at Junmyeon for an explanation. He shrugs in reply. 

“Oh,” Kyungsoo recovers quickly. “What’s your last name? We might have more success in finding out who you are if we’ve got more to go off.” 

Makes sense, Junmyeon thinks, a full name is easier to track than a partial one. They might even be able to find Jongin’s Facebook profile, or whatever social media he uses. Junmyeon can imagine Jongin on Instagram, posting beautiful selfies, tourist shots from his travels. He’s a little upset that he didn’t think of it sooner. 

“What’s your last name?” Jongin asks Junmyeon. 

“Uh, Kim,” he replies, a little thrown off. Why on earth would Jongin be asking--- 

“Then that’s my last name, too,” Jongin smiles and it’s beautiful. 

Junmyeon is caught off guard. 

“It suits you,” Kyungsoo snickers, and in that moment he’s not a successful doctor, he’s a young man prone to teasing his friends. His smile makes him look years younger, and if Junmyeon weren’t already so smitten with Jongdae, he’d likely turn his affections towards Kyungsoo. 

“Thank you for coming, by the way,” Jongin says. Things make sense for a moment, before the realisation and confusion sets in: obviously, Jongin has used Junmyeon’s phone to message his friends, requesting their presence at the house. But Junmyeon’s phone is also locked with a _passcode_ , a random series of digits he’s never recited aloud. 

“Of course the party boy invited us,” Kyungsoo rolls his eyes. “Actually asking for company isn’t Junmyeon’s thing at all.” 

“Hey--” 

It feels like an attack on his character, and it probably is. Not a malicious one, but a thinly veiled jab at Junmyeon’s more introverted tendencies. If the others feel neglected, they don’t say it aloud. Though they do hint at it, occasionally, masked by jokes and nudges from elbows. 

“C’mon city boy,” two years and counting, and Junmyeon still can’t escape. “Let’s find some glasses. The boys are bringing vodka.” 

\------

A house, covered in honeysuckle vines. Five men within the taupe coloured walls, laughing at everything and nothing over spirits sipped from teacups. Chanyeol and Jongdae bicker, as they always do. Kyungsoo interjects with opinions and anecdotes and Jongin drinks it all up like soil after a drought. 

Junmyeon watches on fondly, forgetting for a moment the strange day he’s had, the loss of Rosie and the mysterious circumstances surrounding Jongin’s appearance. 

“I should add you on Facebook,” Chanyeol says, fumbling with drunken fingers as he thrusts his phone in Jongin’s direction. 

“I don’t have one,” Jongin shakes his head. “But you’ve got Junmyeon, so you can talk to me through his account.” 

“You should get one,” Jongdae prompts, and Kyungsoo nods in agreement. “You’re fun, and we’d like to keep in contact when you leave.” 

“I’m leaving?” Jongin asks, as if he’s honestly puzzled. “Where am I going?” 

“Home,” Junmyeon reminds him. “I found you in my garden, but it’s not like you _grew_ there or anything…” 

Junmyeon trails off. Ridiculous notions and childlike imagination bloom within his mind. Some of the things Jongin says, his knowledge of people who have visited the garden, his penchant for roses--

It’s impossible, for Jongin to be Rosie, for his rose bush to become human. Jongin is just a lost boy with a terrible memory, and that’s all there is to it. 

No matter how similar the shade of his hair is to that of Rosie’s petals.

\------

Junmyeon wakes with the sun, as is his routine, hangover be damned. Jongin sleeps soundly in the guest bedroom, the same place Junmyeon slept as a child. Kyungsoo most likely bullied his way into a sleeping spot on the couch, leaving Jongdae and Chanyeol to the floor. 

Kyungsoo’s spot is empty, but there are sounds in the kitchen indicating that he’s awake. The kettle boils, cups pulled from shelves. No sounds of cutlery: like Junmyeon, Kyungsoo doesn’t add anything to his tea. 

Jongdae sleeps with his head on Chanyeol’s chest, arms wrapped around his midsection as they huddle for warmth on the living room floor. They’re so comfortable with each other, inseparable and in constant contact. Junmyeon tries and fails to dispel his jealousy, cursing himself for lacking the nerve to offer Jongdae a place in his bed. 

Not that he would have taken it, Jongdae is so infallibly loyal to Chanyeol that he’ll never abandon his side, not even for a night. 

With a sigh, Junmyeon continues on to the kitchen, hoping that Kyungsoo has had enough foresight to brew extra tea. Perhaps a quiet conversation will be enough to distract Junmyeon from the thoughts of waking up to Jongdae's sleeping face. 

“Mornin’,” he mumbles. 

Kyungsoo pours a second cup of tea. 

“You saw them, didn’t you,” he says. Not a question. Cold water has already been added to his tea, and the scent of roses envelops the kitchen.

“Yeah,” Junmyeon whispers, “yeah, I did.” 

“I work with these nurses,” Kyungsoo starts. He doesn’t look at Junmyeon, gaze set on the dents and burn marks on the wooden table before him. “They’re always together. At work, at home, when they do the groceries. Even on shift, it’s rare to see them apart.” 

“They sound like Chanyeol and Jongdae.” 

“They’re in _love_ ,” Kyungsoo corrects, “the nurses, I mean.” 

“I don’t see why--” 

“Yixing and Sehun, their names are,” he presses, “they’re both men.” Kyungsoo offers a pointed look over the rim of his mug. He’s using Jongdae’s favourite; a tacky print of bunnies printed onto porcelain, a half-hearted birthday gift from his mother. 

“So?” 

“I don’t think anyone picks up on it,” Kyungsoo says lowly, “I don’t think people see them as anything other than friends or housemates.” 

“But you know differently.” 

“I saw them kiss,” he confirms, “in the car park, just after my shift. There was no one else around.” 

“Kyungsoo,” Junmyeon hates the way his voice breaks. “Kyungsoo, what are you trying to tell me?” 

“The closer you get to the city, the more liberal people become,” he taps his fingers against the table. “Sehun and Yixing grew up an hour away, but that hour has made such a difference to who they are, and how they address their feelings.” It’s strange, almost, hearing Kyungsoo speak so much. “While people there aren’t as open or accepting, they can at least put names to things, even though no one talks about it.”

“Don’t,” Junmyeon pleads. He’s too hungover for heartbreak.

“Chanyeol and Jongdae will never leave this town. They were born here, and they’ll die here,” Kyungsoo finishes his tea. “They will live together until that point. They won’t get married because everyone will leave in search of better things.” 

Junmyeon knows it’s true. The only young people they ever see are passersby, people who stop for fuel and food, moving on and forgetting they ever visited. Sometimes backpackers stick around for a month or two; beautiful and foreign, their accents thick and words practised. He’s seen Chanyeol go home with one or two, Jongdae a few more. But their beauty is like that of butterflies, stunning and fleeting, gone in the blink of an eye. 

“Jongdae and Chanyeol will live their lives like a married couple. But they’ll always be _just friends_ , and there will always be something _missing_.” Kyungsoo’s words ricochet, settling as a dull pain in Junmyeon’s chest. “And isn’t that such a tragic love story? Two boys whose country roots separate them from the happiness they deserve.” 

“Is this your way of telling me to give up?” They’re never this direct, not once has Junmyeon spoken about feelings with any of his friends. With a country mindset comes the rejection of emotions; men don’t talk about how they feel, they just put up with it. Men certainly don’t talk about the way they wish their friend was something more. 

“I’m just pointing out the obvious,” Kyungsoo replies, cryptic once more. “Take from it what you will.” 

\------

In Junmyeon’s garden, something is amiss. Rosie’s disappearance is puzzling, but it’s the aftermath that has Junmyeon, awful pun not intended, but it has him _stumped_. Rosie once took root in the dirt of the backyard, surrounded by fragrant mulch and a neatly trimmed line of lawn. In the daylight, not twenty-four hours after her disappearance, there’s nothing. Not a single sign of her existence remains, the dirt Jongin was found in now completely overgrown by lawn. 

It shouldn’t be possible. Mulch takes years to break down, grass weeks and months to grow. But the fresh sprouts blend in seamlessly, and to anyone other than Junmyeon, it would look like a normal, healthy patch of lawn. 

_There’s magic here,_ his grandmother used to say. For some reason, Junmyeon finds himself inclined to believe her. 

“I let the hens out,” Jongin appears behind him, silent as ever. He holds matching mugs of tea, extending one in Junmyeon’s direction. He takes it wordlessly. “I gave them a stern talking to. Hopefully, they won’t attack any innocent vegetables today.” 

Jongin smiles, bright like sunshine. 

“Thanks.”

Truthfully, Junmyeon had forgotten about his girls, still preoccupied with his earlier conversation with Kyungsoo and thoughts of Rosie. 

“The others are still asleep,” Jongin continues, “and I’m pretty sure Kyungsoo’s gone home, I didn’t see him inside.” 

“Yeah, probably,” Junmyeon rasps, “he’s probably walked home by now, he lives--”

“Two doors down, I know.”

“How?” 

Jongin hums in questioning. Sipping at his tea and observing the garden. 

“How do you know that?” Junmyeon clarifies. 

“I just do,” he shrugs, “it’s like I’ve always known.” 

“You’ve never been here before,” Junmyeon is upset, frustrated. Nothing makes sense, and his inability to understand the mysteries of the world leaves him feeling helpless. “How on earth could you know that?” 

“I feel like I’ve always been here.” 

“You got here _yesterday_ ,” Junmyeon wants to tear at his hair, scream out his vexation into the morning air. 

“Your plants love you a lot, did you know that?” Jongin says, changing the topic. “I can tell.” 

“So you’ve said,” Junmyeon mutters. 

“I love you a lot,” Jongin continues. 

“That too.” 

“I think I’m home,” Jongin sighs. 

A breeze shifts through the garden, and Junmyeon swears he smells roses.

\------

Jongin’s case goes cold. The police give up trying to find out where he’s from within a week of his arrival, the townspeople grow used to the pink haired boy that follows Junmyeon around. He becomes part of the scenery, a familiar face and no longer a spectacle. 

Small towns don’t question new residents. Unapologetic gossips they may be, but they know better than to scare off people who boost the population of a dying town. Sure, they’d prefer a nuclear family with traditional, small town values. But Jongin is kind, Jongin is sweet and only a few people still scoff and scowl at the colour of his hair. 

Jobs don’t really come around all too often, though Jongin’s lack of identification assure he’ll never be offered one, and Junmyeon soon realises that he’s stuck with Jongin for the long haul. 

It’s an intimidating thought, that. Jongin came in unwelcome and unannounced, and now Junmyeon is solely responsible for his wellbeing. Unable to get his license, denied bank accounts, his phone added as an extra on Junmyeon’s plan because, in the eyes of the world, Jongin doesn’t exist. 

But he _does_ exist, and that is a miracle in of itself. Junmyeon’s done with theorising the mysterious Origin of Jongin. The only evidence available suggests that Jongin is Rosie, that his rosebush was given life so he could finally express gratitude to the person who saved him. A gift from the fairies, from the earth, from whoever or whatever dwells in Junmyeon’s garden; something to save him from the loneliness he’s always known and constantly denied. 

Now that he has Jongin, he can’t imagine being without him, and that, is the most terrifying thought of them all. Not magical earth, not boys who bloom from rose buds, but the fact that Junmyeon needs other people. 

Not when he’s spent so long pretending the opposite. 

\------

Junmyeon takes an unexplained leave of absence from his online life. He still checks comments on occasion, but never really finds the time, nor the energy to reply to them. His fans are confused, worried, and it’s understandable; he’s gone from posting thrice weekly content to complete radio silence. 

What worries him the most is Rosie, or rather, the lack of Rosie, in the few snippets of video he manages to film. Her absence is noticeable, and his eagle-eyed viewers are sure to pick up on it. Junmyeon doesn’t notice, not with Jongin’s constant presence and the scent of fresh roses that seems to follow him around. 

“Do I have to?” Jongin whines. He eyes the pair of hedge clippers in his hand with a grimace. “I can tell you they don’t like these things.”

“It’s clippers, or we end up with a house full of honeysuckle.” 

_We. Ours._ Junmyeon’s house becomes Jongin’s, too, somewhere along the line. 

“I wouldn’t mind,” Jongin laughs. 

“Of course you wouldn’t.” 

Jongin trims the vine dutifully, whispering apologies with each snip, trying to name each flower he comes across but failing due to the sheer amount of them. He laughs and jokes, like a doctor would to a child about to receive a vaccination. Junmyeon feels it too, how calming Jongin’s words can be. 

The idea strikes him suddenly, almost out of nowhere. 

“Jongin, wait,” he says. Jongin pauses, trimmers open and poised over a section of vine. “Don’t cut a single thing until I get back. “ 

His eyes widen in surprise. 

“Okay.” 

\--------

“I’m sorry about the lack of updates,” Junmyeon says into the camera. He rubs at the back of his head sheepishly. “Some things have been happening. Life things, mostly, but I’m back and ready to show you some great new stuff.” 

He smiles, offering the lens a quick thumbs up. 

“I know a lot of you loved Rosie a lot, but I have some bad news,” downcast, mournful glance. “I lost Rosie to a bad case of root rot, and I didn’t know how to tell you.” 

Root rot, a common cause of death for roses. An amateur mistake, really, one that will surely result in hateful comments, people who stick around for actual gardening tips likely unsubscribing. 

Whatever. 

“We figured that Rosie’s position in the garden allowed for excess buildup of water, resulting in the rot,” Junmyeon gestures downwards, the standard YouTuber schtick. “I did a detailed write up on my blog, if anyone’s interested.” 

More finger wiggling, this time gesturing to the annotations floating around his head.

“If you have any tributes for our dearly departed Rosie, then make sure to tag me on the social media platform of your choice. I’ll start.”

A slideshow of photos, a few seconds of video footage here and there, a timeline of Rosie’s life with Junmyeon, all set to _In The Arms of An Angel_. Compelling. Moving. Standard YouTube stuff.

“I know it’s a lot to process, and I know you all loved Rosie as much as I did, but there’s something else I need to show you,” Junmyeon pauses for dramatic effect. “Or rather _someone_ else.”

He smiles conspiratorially at the camera. “Everyone, meet Jongin.” 

The footage cuts from Junmyeon as he sits in his living room to Jongin’s smiling face, bathed in sunshine.

“Hello!” He greets warmly. “It’s nice to meet you.” 

The rest of the video continues in the spirit of the rest of Junmyeon’s channel. Excited hens run underfoot, Junmyeon playfully scolds plants who ignore his directions and grow in whichever way they please. He sings to his strawberries, hoping the song passed down from his grandmother will help them to ripen quickly. 

Everything is the same, yet so subtly different. Jongin is visible in most of the shots, somewhere off in the background. He chases the hens, completes tasks in the garden that aren’t interesting enough to film. The end of Junmyeon’s videos used to feature some sort of Rosie appreciation, but she’s gone, and Jongin is all that remains.

The final segment has Jongin wrangling wild honeysuckle vines, chastising them for growing too close to the bathroom’s exterior window. 

“C’mon now,” he says with an annoyed sigh. Junmyeon plays up his interactions with the garden, but Jongin, it seems, is a complete natural. “You heard Junmyeon, no plants in the house.” 

“Some plants are okay,” Junmyeon replies, voice disembodied and body out of shot. Jongin looks back at him in surprise, though offers a wink in return to Junmyeon’s own. A secret in-joke that even Jongin isn’t quite aware of. “But not honeysuckles,” he adds, just in case the mischievous vines get any ideas. 

“No,” Jongin says with a frown, gently pruning away at the overzealous growth. “Definitely not honeysuckles.” 

\------

Baekhyun comes to town. 

His arrival is unexpected, yet warmly welcomed. Junmyeon’s never seen him in person, only over grainy, lagging Skype calls and pictures he posts on his Facebook profile. The only way to describe Baekhyun is _vibrant_ , a whirlwind of excitement blustering into town, loud laughter and large smiles. 

Baekhyun isn’t meant for country life, Junmyeon decides. He has shed his small-town shell, comfortable and fashionable in his new city slicker skin. The brands he wears are ones Junmyeon recognises as being _on trend_ , and Baekhyun doesn’t give up his fancy new labels, even now when there’s no one to impress. 

Junmyeon gave most of his clothes away the second he walked into town. Sometimes he sees the local teenagers wearing some of his old stuff, and it never fails to bring a smile to his face. His mother would surely throw a fit if she knew; but it’s been four years since he’s last spoken to her in person, two since their last phone call. 

“I’m a big fan,” Baekhyun says, shaking Junmyeon’s hand. Firm grasp, professional tone. City boy. “Your channel is a huge hit in the office.” 

Baekhyun works for _Buzzfeed_ , just to add insult to injury. Liberal company, shallow content. Baekhyun’s employer is the biggest _fuck you_ he could muster, and Junmyeon has to wonder if it’s intentional. 

“You’ve been gone a long time,” Kyungsoo mentions offhandedly, but there’s something else to his tone that suggests underlying intention and meaning. There’s something Junmyeon is missing. “Why come back now?” 

“Ahh,” Baekhyun ducks his head sheepishly. “I’m sorry for not mentioning it sooner, but I’m here for work.” 

“Work,” Kyungsoo deadpans, “you’re here for _work_.” 

“”None of that,” Chanyeol offers the signature nudge of his elbow. 

“Just be thankful he’s home,” Jongdae adds. Baekhyun looks uncomfortable. Something tells Junmyeon that Baekhyun sees himself as a climbing vine, roots in one place and vines somewhere else. He may have sprouted from a small town, but the city is where he _belongs_. He wonders if the others have figured it out. 

He wonders if he’s the same. 

“I should have asked,” Baekhyun continues, addressing Junmyeon and Junmyeon alone. “But they want to do a feature video on your garden, have me help you out for a week so I can make a fool of myself for the internet.” 

“Two co-hosts?” Jongdae laughs, “soon you’ll have more people than plants in that garden of yours.” 

Junmyeon wants to correct him, mention that he has more than three things growing, and that Jongdae would know if he just sat down and watched one of Junmyeon’s videos at some point. But that’s not the joke, and Junmyeon’s interjection would ruin the smile on Jongdae’s face, and that’s not something he’s about to do. 

“Yeah, what’s up with that?” Baekhyun asks, jerking his thumb in Jongin’s direction. He stands at the bar, ordering the next round of drinks (with Junmyeon’s money). 

“I found him in my garden,” Junmyeon shrugs. It’s the truth, complete and honest. “I couldn’t stand to kick him out, so he’s just… he’s stayed.” 

“Interesting,” Baekhyun hums. Junmyeon can see the ideas forming in his head, ideas for the video, questions to ask Jongin when the camera rolls. “Is he your boyfriend or something?” 

“No.” 

Three voices speak at once. The fourth, Kyungsoo’s, stays oddly silent. 

“He’s my housemate,” Junmyeon clarifies, “or something like that.” 

“Oh, my mistake,” Baekhyun smiles his wide grin, waving his hand as if to dismiss his earlier assumption. “So,” he continues, again, speaking only to Junmyeon. “You in?” 

Junmyeon casts a glance at the bar where Jongin exchanges pleasantries with the owner, his pink hair bright against the dull background. 

“Yeah,” he relents, “why not?” 

Baekhyun smiles, self-satisfied and celebratory.

\------

It doesn’t take long for Junmyeon to realise that his life is so unbelievably _boring_. He’s not exactly bored, per se, but his day to day routine lacks the excitement and wonder needed to create engaging content. There are only so many times Baekhyun can film the tea making process, nothing but scenery to film as he accompanies Junmyeon and Jongin on their weekly run to the nearest nursery for supplies. 

“Can you just,” Baekhyun sighs in annoyance, setting his equipment down on the nearest stack of bagged soil. The store owner watches on with intrigue. “Can you two do something exciting? You barely talk, you just… garden.” 

Sweaty palms wiped on designer sweatpants. 

“I run a gardening channel,” Junmyeon raises an eyebrow, “I don’t know what you were expecting.” 

“Anything but this,” he gestures to the store around them. “You garden, you edit videos, you drink tea and there’s barely any conversation between the two of you.” Baekhyun fumbles for a moment, switching his equipment off to save the battery. “You’ve been on your own for _years_ and now there’s a pretty twink watering your hydrangeas for you. I came here for a love story.” 

“Wait a second,” Junmyeon holds up a hand, “you travelled all the way back here, not to see your friends, but for an expose?” 

“Yes,” Baekhyun seethes, “I wanted your sob story about being in love and not being able to express it because of small town expectations.” 

“You assume no one watches my videos,” Junmyeon points out, “if we were hiding some sort of ~forbidden~ relationship, then that’s the worst way to come out.” 

“They _don’t_ watch your videos,” Baekhyun says, “if they don’t pay attention to mine, then they sure as hell won’t pay attention to _yours_.”

Silence. A nursery employee pretending he’s not eavesdropping on their conversation. 

“Junmyeon’s videos are already full of love stories,” Jongin says quietly, “they may not be between people, but Junmyeon loves his garden, and the garden loves him.” 

“That’s not the content I was asked to make.” 

Push homoerotic subtext for views, spin a story for fleeting internet fame. Junmyeon is above such tactics, but Baekhyun seems like he’s at the end of his rope; the pressure he’s under must be incredible, what with such a known brand to represent, the expectation of a certain quality. Baekhyun isn’t wrong when he assumes that his friends aren’t interested in his content, but that doesn’t mean the rest of the world feels the same. 

“They want a love story,” Junmyeon muses, “and they sent you because we’re part of the same friend group.” 

“Yes,” Baekhyun admits, “I know we’re not close, but they’re on my ass about this.” 

“I suppose we could hold hands or something,” Junmyeon muses, before turning to Jongin. “If that’s okay with you?” 

“Of course it is,” Jongin shrugs, “I’ve told you already: I love you. Why wouldn’t I want to hold your hand?” 

Baekhyun looks like he has questions. Junmyeon shoots him a look, implying that they remain un-asked. 

“You two are something else,” he settles on. His camera returns to the strap around his neck, power on and recording. “But thank you.” 

“It’s fine,” Junmyeon replies. 

He takes Jongin’s hand, ignores the whirring of a lens as Baekhyun zooms in on their entwined fingers. 

\------

Reality television is scripted. The same goes for the small ‘documentary’ on Junmyeon and his garden. They settle for mild skinship instead of a dramatic revelation of a secret relationship; Junmyeon’s viewers are sure to watch Baekhyun’s feature, and he doesn’t feel like discrediting such a major company after they’ve so graciously offered to share their spotlight with Junmyeon and his humble garden. 

Jongin is his… something. Friend, housemate, something more but not in the way that people assume. His presence is constant and comfortable, and acting on Baekhyun’s request for skinship comes a lot easier than he expected. 

A hand on Jongin’s thigh as they’re interviewed. Back hugs while Junmyeon makes tea. Jongin smiling fondly as he brushes dirt from Junmyeon’s cheek. Subtle, tasteful, teasing. Enough to imply a deeper meaning, subtext that will fill comment sections with theories and speculation. 

For someone so regularly part of bizarre taste test videos, Baekhyun is apprehensive about talking to plants, but Jongin manages to drag Baekhyun into their antics on the final day. It makes for good content, character development in a ten-minute time frame. 

Baekhyun goes from laughing at Junmyeon as he tends to his plants, to cooing at the African Violet seedling that Junmyeon hands him as a parting gift. 

“You should name her,” Jongin says, arm around Junmyeon’s shoulder and gaze on the camera, balanced precariously on a tripod. Baekhyun never planned on being in the frame with the two of them, and subsequently left his tripod at home. Junmyeon’s cheap, eBay setup isn’t quite strong enough, and they’ve resorted to desperate, duct tape methods to stop the hinges from shifting under the weight.

“I’ll set up a poll on Twitter,” Baekhyun winks, offers finger guns to the lens. 

Filming wraps up, cameras are packed away and Baekhyun changes from his branded sweats into branded jeans, preparation for the drive home. Junmyeon will be sad to see him go, suddenly understanding how the others feel when Baekhyun’s fleeting presence reaches the end of its lifespan. 

“You know,” Baekhyun says, one foot through the door of his car, the other still firmly planted on the country soil. “You guys have something special here,” he looks fond, almost. “Not just the garden, but with each other.” 

“I’m not sure what you mean,” Junmyeon replies nervously. 

“I don’t know what I mean, either,” he sighs, “there’s just something so…” Baekhyun waves his hand in a vague gesture. “... magical about all of this.” 

“There’s magic here,” Junmyeon parrots his grandmother's words. “Or so I’ve been told.” 

“I wish I could take some of it with me.”

Jongin appears, Baekhyun’s African Violet seedling in hand. They’ve donated a spare pot to the cause, something bright and gaudy, something Junmyeon’s only ever used for aesthetic photos and not actual gardening. He places the small plant on the passenger seat of Baekhyun’s car, wrapping the seatbelt around the pot to secure it in place. 

“Safety first,” he says, so serious and genuine. Junmyeon can’t help but smile fondly, a default reaction when it comes to Jongin. 

“Abracadabra,” Junmyeon jokes. Baekhyun rolls his eyes good-naturedly.

“I’ll be seeing you,” he says, “and I’ll let you know what I name my new baby.” 

Clouds of dust swirl under Baekhyun’s tyres as he drives off, the roads not quite as finished as they should be. He doesn’t wave, doesn’t offer a forlorn glance to the rear view mirror as he leaves. Baekhyun doesn’t belong here, not anymore. He’s not going to miss his hometown, not like he so obviously missed the city during his time away. 

Junmyeon and Jongin watch him go. Somehow, their hands find each other as they stand, silently, watching the dust settle after Baekhyun’s departure. The scene is picturesque; vibrant orange sunset, quiet country town, a soundtrack of birdsong and the quiet vibration of insects. 

“Baekhyun’s gone,” Junmyeon says once the air is clear. 

“I know,” Jongin replies. 

“There’s no camera’s around.” 

“No, there’s not.” 

“So why are you still holding my hand?” Junmyeon asks. His words could be harsh, unkind, but his gentle, questioning tone softens the intention. 

“Because I want to,” Jongin replies simply. 

Junmyeon has seen so many sunsets, but there’s something about this one that’s a little more special. 

\------ 

Baekhyun’s video is a catalyst. Released after his departure, two weeks to the day, the fantastic editing and choice in background music combine humour and aesthetic into a brilliant introduction to Junmyeon’s channel. 

As expected, his subscribers skyrocket. His bank account receives a much-needed boost from all the added views, and his email account fills with questions and comments, praise and artwork. 

His newly acquired popularity isn’t the only thing that changes. Jongin sticks to Baekhyun’s suggestion of skinship, and it’s not just in videos. Junmyeon finds himself in close physical contact with Jongin so often that the brief moments they’re apart makes him feel _empty_.

It’s mostly at night when the beginnings of a winter chill start to cut through the pleasant autumn days, that Junmyeon feels it the most. Not usually one for cuddling, he starts to wonder how it would feel to share a bed with Jongin. He imagines that Jongin is a blanket hog, that he’d have to snuggle close to draw heat from Jongin’s body rather than the covers. Annoying, yes. Adorable, most definitely. Junmyeon wonders, but not once does he offer Jongin space on his mattress to test if his suspicions are true. 

This feels so familiar. 

“Does it ever bother you,” Junmyeon starts one day, hands running through Jongin’s impossibly pink hair as he rests his head on Junmyeon’s lap. “Not being able to remember anything?” 

They don’t talk often. There isn’t really any reason to, because Jongin seems to know Junmyeon better than he knows himself. Junmyeon doesn’t need to ask for a refill on his tea, or for chores to be completed, because Jongin’s already done it before his mouth opens to speak. They’ll talk shit with the boys, but their days are mostly silent, spent enjoying the peace and each other’s company. 

Junmyeon doesn’t know why he brings it up.

“Not really,” Jongin mumbles into Junmyeon’s thigh. “I know what I need to, and that’s all that matters.” 

“Someone could be out there looking for you,” Junmyeon prompts. It’s not that he wants Jongin to leave, but that he’s curious. Of course, he’s of the belief that Jongin is the human form of Rosie, but it’s such a farfetched idea that he secretly hopes it’s not true, that there’s another more logical explanation behind Jongin’s existence. 

“I don’t think so,” he replies, “and I don’t think I mind.” 

“It’s just so _strange_ , that you know everything but remember nothing.” 

Jongin sits up, but he stays close. 

“And the things you know seem to come straight from my head.” There, he voices it. His main concern, the biggest mystery, the one piece of the puzzle he’s still yet to properly solve. 

“My memories start with you,” Jongin says slowly. He takes Junmyeon’s hand in his. “Seeing you for the first time is also the first thing I remember.” His thumb runs along Junmyeon’s forefinger. “But my knowledge starts earlier, somehow. I just know I loved you, and that I wanted to tell you. I think I wished for this, whatever it is. And someone heard me, so they made it happen.” 

“You know,” Junmyeon swallows thickly, “I don’t think you know what _love_ means. You keep saying you love me, but I don’t think you understand what you’re saying.”

“I’m not a child,” comes Jongin’s curt reply, “I don’t know who I am, or where I came from. I don’t know why I only seem to know the things you know, or why I’m here.” He pauses, “but I know what love means, I know about attraction, and I’m serious when I talk about it.” 

“You can’t be.”

“Is that because of Jongdae?” Jongin scoffs, his hand drawing away. Junmyeon immediately misses the warmth. 

“I don’t know what you--” 

“Save it,” he laughs, because the only other option is to cry. “I know what you know, remember? My first memory is you, and the first thing I realised is that you don’t feel the same way about me.” 

Jongdae is, has been and always will be, nothing but a pipe dream. But the smell of smoke lingers even as it dissipates, and Junmyeon’s thoughts of Jongdae still remain with the faintest tinge of masochistic _what ifs_.

“I think I wished for this,” Jongin says, voice so pained and mournful. “Whoever, or whatever I was, I think I wished to be your perfect match, the kind of person who you’d fall in love with.” An exhale, shaking breath as Jongin blinks back tears. “Theoretically, I’ve been made for you. But that’s not good enough for some reason.” 

“I---” 

“It’s okay,” Jongin still manages to smile, despite everything. “You don’t have to say a thing,” he stands, puts distance between them. “I know what you know, after all.” 

\------

A pattern of knocks indicates Jongdae is at the door. He always taps the same rhythm into wood, where Chanyeol enters unannounced and Kyungsoo uses the doorbell. He’s alone, looking tired and worn, his usual disposition turned sour. 

“Can I come in?” he asks. Polite, short, so unlike himself that Junmyeon is taken aback. 

“Sure,” he moves aside to let Jongdae in. “What’s up?” 

“I need to ask you a question,” Jongdae makes a beeline for the kitchen, a habit. Junmyeon already knows he’s in for a two pot conversation. “A few questions, really.” 

“Go ahead.” 

Somehow, he knows that Jongdae’s visit has nothing to do with gardening. 

“What’s it like to live in the city?” 

Now _that’s_ surprising. Country boy Jongdae, wondering what city life has to offer. 

“Lonely,” Junmyeon replies, honestly. “Claustrophobic.” 

“That’s why you moved, then?” 

He’s nearly at the three-year mark, his desire to move along decreasing with each day. Originally his relocation was supposed to be temporary, something to do while he sorts out his life. But he’s found meaning and purpose, at least for the time being. Junmyeon’s grown accustomed to his quiet lifestyle, and even if he moves from his current location, he’ll probably just shift to a slightly bigger small town.

“There was nothing for me there,” he shrugs, “so when my grandmother left me the house, I decided to move on a whim.” 

“No boyfriend?” 

“What---” 

“I know,” Jongdae says quietly, “I know that you’re,” he seems reluctant to finish his sentence. “ _Gay_.” 

“How?” Junmyeon manages to rasp out. 

“Just a feeling,” Jongdae shrugs. He doesn’t elaborate further. 

“Why all the questions?” 

“I’m thinking about applying for a transfer,” Jongdae says noncommittally, “not to the city or anything, but to somewhere with more fires, you know?” 

He mumbles something, and Junmyeon thinks he catches Chanyeol’s name somewhere in the gibberish.

“Do you really want to go?” 

“No.” 

“Then why---” 

“I don’t know,” Jongdae whines, collapsing face first onto the table. “I’ve just been thinking recently, about a lot of things and I just---” 

“Some people aren’t happy with their hometown,” Junmyeon starts, “people like me and Baekhyun,” in a moment of bravery, he reaches over the table to take Jongdae’s hand in his own. The touch should feel intimate, but it’s just skin on skin, no spark involved. “And some people are born in places where everything they’ve ever wanted is already there with them.” 

Jongdae looks up, shocked. 

“You know,” Junmyeon pulls his hand away. Any other night, his sentence would end in a confession. But it’s not the time, the opportunity comes far too late. “You know, I’ve always admired what you have with Chanyeol.” 

Junmyeon speaks with country-style, roundabout reasoning. Jongdae’s casual mention of Junmyeon’s sexuality, Junmyeon’s reference to Jongdae’s relationship with Chanyeol. They’re interconnected points, correlating information. There are implications to be read, and with the way Jongdae gapes at him, Junmyeon knows his intentions have been interpreted, just the way he wanted. 

“One more question,” Jongdae says softly, “one more, I promise.” 

“Hit me.” 

“What’s it like to be in love with another man?” He can’t look Junmyeon in the eye. 

“I think you already know the answer to that,” Junmyeon replies. 

His answer comes in the form of a sad smile, and Jongdae’s smoke finally clears. All that’s left is the familiar scent of roses. 

\------

While Junmyeon’s almost certain his feelings for Jongdae have faded, it doesn’t exactly mean he’s in love with Jongin. Feelings don’t work like that: emotions fade like gradients, they don’t flick like switches, and just because Jongin is in love with Junmyeon, it doesn’t mean he’s obliged to feel the same. 

But still, he wonders. After Jongdae’s not-quite-confession, Junmyeon refuses Jongin’s attempts to tone back on the touching. Their constant contact has become something of a routine, and his days feel cold and empty without Jongin’s fingertips on his skin. 

Domestic fantasies involving Jongdae play out in real life, but the form against his side is taller, leaner; hair pink where it was once originally black. Junmyeon makes an effort to talk to Jongin, about everything and nothing, filling the house with constant chatter. 

Junmyeon finds himself disagreeing with Jongin’s theories as they finally get to know each other-- Jongin has a personality of his own, opinions that grow and change. He seems to think he’s some sort of Build A Boyfriend for Junmyeon’s benefit. He’s not. Jongin is his own person now, regardless of his origins. 

With every argument, every minor difference in opinion, Junmyeon finds himself falling for Jongin; slowly, unwillingly, unintentionally. 

It causes a shift in dynamics within their friend group. But Junmyeon’s growing affections aren’t the only thing to blame. Things between Jongdae and Chanyeol are tense, an elephant in the room that goes unaddressed. When Junmyeon isn’t watching Jongin, he notices the longing glances Jongdae offers Chanyeol when his back is turned. He sees Chanyeol’s hurt, confused responses, offered the moment Jongdae lowers his eyes. 

Kyungsoo notices, too, raising an eyebrow at Junmyeon with each missed connection. He just shrugs, discreetly resting his hand on Jongin’s knee under the table. 

It’s not his place to interfere with other people’s relationships, not when his own is just as complicated. Jongin returns his affections though doesn’t offer his own unprompted. It’s understandable, really, that Jongin is so apprehensive. As far as he knows, Junmyeon is still in love with Jongdae, and while that’s untrue, it’s not like Junmyeon has verbally confirmed it. 

Considering the intensity of Jongin’s emotions, it’s not right to lead him on. But Junmyeon has to be sure before he takes that final step in the direction of a relationship, and he’s not quite ready to take the leap. 

Not yet. 

\------

“There are a lot of stories with unhappy endings,” Kyungsoo says. They’re out on their own, Jongdae and Chanyeol both unresponsive to messages, Jongin worn out from a long day of filming, still napping on the couch. 

“I have a feeling you’re about to tell me one,” Junmyeon laughs. He’s finally used to the taste of beer, and he licks the foam from his top lip without his usual grimace. 

“This is a three part story,” he replies, “one ending is unhappy, the other two are still works in progress.” 

“Start with the finished part,” Junmyeon prompts, “then hit me with the cliffhangers.” 

“There once was a boy. He spent his afternoons making out with his best friend and falling in love. But one day the best friend moves away, and the boy is left heartbroken. The end.” 

“So,” Junmyeon says, “you and Baekhyun, huh?” 

“Stop interrupting.” 

“But you said _the end_?” 

“Part one of three,” Kyungsoo dismisses him. “I’m still telling my story.” 

Junmyeon grins around the rim of his glass, motioning for Kyungsoo to continue. 

“The boy’s best friends are just as dumb and just as in love, but they’re too scared to do anything about it.” 

“Chanyeol and Jongdae,” Junmyeon muses. Kyungsoo glares at him. “Right, shutting up.” 

“They’re at a tipping point, a fork in the road: they could ruin their friendship, one planning to run away and never return. The boy from the original story watches from the sidelines, hoping they just give into their sexual tension and fuck it out like normal people.” 

Junmyeon snorts. 

“And then there are these two newcomers,” and Junmyeon knows that they’ve reached _his_ part of the story. He stays quiet, aware that Kyungsoo will probably leave his narrative unfinished if Junmyeon dares to interrupt him again. “There’s some boring parts, useless love triangles that aren’t important.” A pointed look in Junmyeon’s direction. “But they’re on the edge of something beautiful, these two newcomers. And while the narrator doesn’t trust the dumb couple not to fuck everything up beyond repair, he has nothing but faith in his two new friends.” 

“Have you ever told Baekhyun how you feel?” Junmyeon tries to change the subject. “Honest question.” 

“No point,” Kyungsoo takes the bait. “I’m not enough to keep him here, and he’s not enough to make me want to leave.” He fiddles with the cardboard coaster beneath his glass. “Not every story has a happy ending, Junmyeon.” 

“What’s the point to this story?” 

“I choose to be miserable,” Kyungsoo admits, “It’s my decision, and I have to live with it.” He points an accusatory finger in Junmyeon’s direction. “You have a choice, too. You’re the narrator of your own goddamn story, and _you_ are the one who decides how it ends.” 

“What about…” Junmyeon trails off, waving his hand through the air, gesturing to the patrons around him. Small town folk. Conservatives. “You know.” 

“Fuck ‘em,” Kyungsoo says solemnly, “who cares about crusty old farmers, when you’ve got someone as amazing as Jongin to offset their bullshit?” 

“I’m still trying to figure out my ending,” Junmyeon admits, “it may take some time.” 

“I was wrong,” Kyungsoo mutters, finishing his beer. “The newcomer somehow caught the dumb off his friends.” 

“I’m _trying_ ,” Junmyeon replies. 

And that’s all anyone could ever ask of him. 

\------

“Some flowers have meanings, did you know that?” Junmyeon’s grandmother discloses, one day in her garden. Junmyeon is older this time, barely a teenager, now able to hold more meaningful conversations while wandering the yard with his grandmother. 

“I did,” he admits. She’s spoken about flowers and meanings before, but her memory gets worse with each passing day. He’s heard her stories so many times, the same anecdotes a record on repeat.

“Roses are my favourite,” she says, stroking her fingertips along a vibrant red blossom. “Your grandfather used to give them to me, back when he was alive.” 

Junmyeon has never met his grandfather, but he’s heard enough stories that it feels like he has. His grandparents used to communicate through the language of flowers, leaving bouquets on each other's doorsteps, flirting through blossoms rather than words. 

“Romance, right?” he says, predicting the next part of her story.

“The red ones, yes,” she deviates from the script, “but do you know what the pink ones mean?”

She gestures to a new sprout, barely at Junmyeon’s shin. The soil around the plant is fresh, Junmyeon having helped his grandmother in planting it not hours before. He assumes, given the context, that this particular rose bush will probably be pink. 

“Pink roses are versatile,” she continues, “they can mean gratitude, appreciation, or elegance. But they also mean _love_ , just like their red counterparts.” 

“Gratitude and appreciation is part of love, though,” Junmyeon points out, “You can’t love someone if you aren’t grateful for their presence or appreciate them in every way.” 

“You’re such a smart boy,” she hums, “just like your grandfather.” 

“Did he ever give you pink roses?” Junmyeon asks. 

“All the time,” she looks so happy like this, reliving her fondest memories. Junmyeon knows she’s sick, and can only hope her mind supplies such beautiful recollections as her condition worsens. “Pink roses are my favourite, but only because I’ve made my own meaning for them.” 

“And what’s that?”

“All encompassing, unconditional love.” 

\------ 

Jongin doesn’t give up on his crusade to save the weeds, and Junmyeon humours his efforts. They set up small, separate beds in the garden, replanting weeds that sprout amongst flowers into their own, more permanent home. 

Somehow, Jongin takes unsightly weeds and turns them into works of art. He has a way with gardening, wrangling creeping vines and encouraging them to take root in the wooden fences surrounding their property. It adds to the magical feeling of the garden, the height of the vines and the density of their foliage making it seem like a hidden hideaway, something straight out of a fairytale, the kind of place where mythical creatures roam. 

Junmyeon starts to see the beauty in things he’s never noticed, and it’s all thanks to Jongin. His feelings grow stronger and clearer with each passing day. They’re on the precipice of confessions, but Junmyeon is waiting for the right time, the perfect moment. 

What can he say, he’s truly his grandmother’s grandchild, their few interactions raising him to become a true romantic. 

“Stay in your beds, please,” Jongin says to his precious weeds. Junmyeon stands off to the side, watching him work. “I set this up for you, the least you can do is appreciate my efforts.” 

He’s pouting at plants, so kind hearted that he can’t even bear to kill a weed. Jongin is beautiful, wonderful, an enigma that Junmyeon has long given up on solving. Whoever he is, wherever he came from, he’s here now and he’s _Junmyeon’s_ ; his friend, his something, his everything. 

Junmyeon is so, so in love. 

It takes Jongin’s shocked, impossibly gleeful expression for Junmyeon to realise that he’s said it aloud. 

“Do you mean it?” Jongin asks quietly. 

“Every word,” he replies. He doesn’t know how much he voiced instead of thought, but it’s true. He loves Jongin and he means it. Now and forever. 

Jongin is on his feet in seconds, his lips on Junmyeon’s not a moment later. He tastes like the never-ending cups of tea, still carries the scent of roses wherever he goes. 

All encompassing, unconditional love.

Junmyeon loops his arms around Jongin’s neck and deepens the kiss. 

It’s everything he’s ever wanted.

\------ 

The camera captures the moment, forever immortalising it in digital format. Junmyeon keeps the confession, and the kiss in the final cut. It’s their most viewed video, yet.

\------ 

Jongin isn’t subtle with his affection, and it takes the townspeople a while to get used to it. Slowly, begrudgingly, they begin to accept it. There’s still stares and offhand comments, but Junmyeon knows they’ll all come around in the end.

“Need a hand?” Jongdae comes up behind him at the bar, gesturing to the growing round of beers as they’re placed in front of Junmyeon. 

Usually, he’s fine with carrying a full round back to the table, but Baekhyun’s back in town, for a holiday this time, and he’s brought _friends_. His roommate, apparently, and the co-worker of Baekhyun’s who edited the feature video of Jongin, Junmyeon and their beloved garden. 

Enthralled by the idea of visiting Baekhyun’s hometown, they’ve joined him on the four-hour drive, wandering through the tiny main street with wide eyes and curiosity. As far as Junmyeon knows, they’re all staying at Kyungsoo’s house. 

Idly, he wonders how it’s all going, and if Kyungsoo’s part in the story isn’t nearly as depressingly finite as he makes it out to be.

“You know,” Jongdae says, taking his share of the beers. “I’ve always admired what you have with Jongin.” 

A cheeky grin, lips curling. The sight of it doesn’t have Junmyeon’s stomach swooping, but his chest is filled with a sense of fond, platonic kind of affection. 

Chanyeol and Jongdae are still awkward, but it’s different than before; they’re on the edge of something beautiful, and Junmyeon can only hope they decide to write a happy ending of their own. 

“He’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me,” Junmyeon says, openly, honestly. “I don’t know what I’d do without him.” 

It takes Joonmyeon a long time to realise that he’s miserable, that there’s more to life than he assumes. It takes Jongin to fix it; all-encompassing, unconditional, and always faintly rose scented.

**Author's Note:**

> The identity of Baekhyun's friends, as well as Chenyeol/Baeksoo's fates, are completely up to you.


End file.
